


Day Three: Restless

by dalektabledesires



Series: Drabble A Day [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Can be read as stand alone, Drabble, M/M, Too long for a Drabble?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:25:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalektabledesires/pseuds/dalektabledesires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Not beta'd or Brit picked, so any mistakes are my own, and I apologize for them. I tried something different with this piece. I hope you enjoy it! As always, I don't own Sherlock or the related characters nor do I make money from this. It's purely for enjoyment.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Day Three: Restless

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd or Brit picked, so any mistakes are my own, and I apologize for them. I tried something different with this piece. I hope you enjoy it! As always, I don't own Sherlock or the related characters nor do I make money from this. It's purely for enjoyment.

Pacing, fast, quick, back and forth, back and forth, three long strides, turn, repeat. Energy bounding through his veins, red, raw, pure, electric. So much energy, almost as if the hydrogen atom were splitting inside him. No. Metaphors, similes, language constructs. Useless, frivolous, sentimental. All words without meaning, serving no real purpose. No time for such ridiculous notions. Not when there was a world to analyze, pieces and pieces to take apart, criticize, devour, learn, disassemble, destroy, and put back together again. People, places, things, artifacts. All of it screaming at him, yelling, vying for attention. More. More. MORE.

Sherlock pulls at his hair, agitation making him pick up his pace. Bright lights from cars flash through the blinds, cutting through the darkness of the flat. The darkness, the uninterupted darkness. A black space, a blank space. Something that wouldn't pull at him, didn't demand anything from him. The darkness cut off his sense of sight, made him rely on sounds and smells, relatively trivial expressions in the seeming comfort of 221B. If he kept the lights off, if he pulled the blinds tight, he could almost dim the cacophony in his head. Almost. Until a car flashed by, or a biker sped by, or a phone rang. Then the world invaded, pressing in on his mind, insistent, demanding. Look at me, see me, observe me, deduce me. Follow the woman whose husband is having an affair with his secretary, but only in retaliation to her affair with the same secretary. Look at the little boy who does not yet know he is allergic to strawberries. Listen to the old woman who has just discovered knitting, her needles making a clicking sound. Click. Click. Click. 

All of it presses in, surrounds and overwhelms Sherlock. He grinds his hands against his eyes, wants to cry, to shout, to break something, anything to serve as a distraction from the insanity of the world. _please someone save me from the insanity of the world_

The door clicks. The sound is deafening. It sends Sherlock to his knees, and he gasps for breath. 

The coat hanger creaks under the familiar weight of an old, beat up jacket. Sherlock is clutching his hair, twisting the strands in agony, only just avoiding pulling them out. 

The floor boards groan beneath a familiar limping gait. Sherlock is curling in on himself. Too much, too much. It's all too much. 

Warm arms are wrapping around him, holding him, securing him, drawing him in so that all he hears is one heartbeat (singular) and all he feels is a continuous warmth (steady) and all he smells is disinfectant and spice (John).

Sherlock shutters out a breath, the mania ebbing away from his stick-thin limbs and electrified brain. His eyes close and real blackness invades his senses. John holds him more tightly, more securely, and rubs his nose against Sherlock's temple. There is a ghost of a smile where his mouth just brushes over Sherlock. 

"Miss me?" John finally ventures after what must have been hours of sitting on the cold, hard floor, allowing Sherlock to absorb his warmth, his quiet serenity. 

Air flows out of Sherlock's mouth, effortlessly now, easily and without the near panicked anxiety of before. "Evidently," and the sarcasm that drips from the voice doesn't sting but is endearing; it makes John smile. For John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are many things together: best mates, flat mates, confidantes, lovers, companions. Each has seen the other in many different situations. But it is when Sherlock is feeling restless that the pair learns the most about each other, and about themselves. And it is when Sherlock is feeling restless that the limits of their love are tested the hardest and therefore grow the strongest.


End file.
